the journal of literature and the arts at saint david’ s school
animals I kill on the wall, I find new engravings, all containing one repeated line:“ It waits until you’ re alone.” Not to mention the repeated sound of footsteps in and outside the cabin, thump, thump. At night, I can hear the creak of the floor boards as if someone was behind me but I never dared to check. The voices of the trees feel closer than ever. My mind keeps playing tricks on me, making me believe the shiny brass knob of the cabin door is actually twisting.
Day Five: It’ s currently midnight and the whispers of the trees keep getting louder and louder. The whistle of the wind is beginning to howl like it’ s enraged or in agony. The footsteps have continued to grow louder. The scratched cabin door is opening on its own as if daring me to come out, but I can’ t—
I couldn’ t believe what I had just read. This must have been James Poe, the missing journalist who had disappeared without a trace. What happened to him? Who was at the door? I pondered. What could have happened on day five?
These questions have kept me puzzled here for four nights trying to solve the mystery of the lost journalist.
Tonight, I found another old, dusty notebook that had not been there originally. As I now slowly flip page after page, the same messy handwriting appears, with the same format, only this time it’ s about me. The book falls out of my hands as I see that every day is filled in— except for day five.
Soon enough, it hits midnight. The whispers of voices echo throughout the forest, and I begin to recognize that voice— MY VOICE, my mind screams. Thump, thump! The footsteps echo from all around me, gradually getting closer. The wind begins to howl as a cool breeze chills the room.
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